by Phil Geusz
Up until this moment, I'd been having an all too rare pleasant evening despite the importance of the matters under discussion. But now… "All the hostages that were executed, all the pillaging, all the Rabbits shipped away as slaves…" Freida, I didn't add aloud.
"All under his orders, sir," Nestor agreed. "He'd have been declared a war criminal, but we last made peace on negotiated terms as you may recall. Terms that included both sides renouncing all claims of criminality against each other."
I nodded. Because the Empire had protested the legality of some of my own actions at Zombie Station I was more than passingly familiar with this provision of the treaty. Supposedly His Majesty had only agreed for pragmatic reasons—he was well aware that it was unlikely he'd ever be able to get his hands on Kiril and his ilk regardless. "But he's still a beast."
"Absolutely, sir." Nestor licked his nose. "Personally, I suspect that his record as a governor is yet another implied threat to the Wilkes people. Sort of a good cop-bad cop thing."
I nodded. It made sense enough. "So, the Imperials may actually be scarier than I am."
Nestor shrugged. "You have a squadron right here, right now. But that's today, sir. What about tomorrow? Can we hold Wilkes space, in the long run?"
"In the long run, absolutely," I replied. "Once our new offensive-style war-plan kicks in, that is. When we begin deep-raiding Imperial space on a massive scale and set the times and places for the battles by attacking them, for a change, we won't even be worried about 'holding' anymore. We'll be actively expanding. In the short run, however… It depends on how badly the Empire wants the systems, I suppose."
"Yes, sir," Nestor agreed. "Though I don't pretend to be an expert I believe you—an offensive plan makes such perfect sense that I'm shocked no one's ever implemented one before. But…" He shook his head. "For many decades now, we've been slowly losing. You can't blame a front-line House like that of Wilkes for noticing that sort of little detail, sir. Not at all!"
10
From the very beginning our little dinner date with the Imperials was planned as an all-military affair; not only was this traditional in such matters but it freed up Sir Nicholas, our Royal Governor-without-portfolio, to go dirtside and begin undertaking our business with the House of Wilkes. We'd decided to keep his Governor's appointment up our sleeve for the moment; it'd only just been publicly revealed for the first time at Hashimoto Prime, and since my task force was almost certainly the fastest thing moving between here and there, well… It could remain our little secret for several weeks to come. Nicholas had been issued duplicate credentials as a special envoy with just this situation in mind, so it was "Ambassador" Vorsage who dined that night with Lord Randolph, the sitting Lord of the House of Wilkes.
I must say that it felt distinctly strange to find myself serenely floating across space towards an unresisting Imperial cruiser in Javelin's largest and best-appointed boat. Apparently, so did Heinrich. "I've never been so close to an Imperial ship, sir."
"Me either," I agreed. "Or at least not without them shooting at me."
"We ought to ignore the white flag and blow them out of the sky," Captain Harlowe muttered. "Not break bread with them." I scowled and met Jean's eye; he merely shrugged slightly. I didn't like bringing my entire upper command echelon into enemy territory with me, but circumstances had rendered it unavoidable. Heinrich had to come because he too was a past acquaintance of Sir Jason, and Jean's social rank dictated that he be included as well. Captain Harlowe could—and ordinarily should—have been left behind as my second-in-command, ready to carry on the mission in the event of treachery. But the fact was that I had so little trust in the man that I'd sooner have him captured with the rest of us and let things devolve to Commander Mane of the destroyer Cataract than leave him in charge. At least Mane would have the sense to realize that he was out of his league and obey his orders to fall back and preserve the force intact for another day. Or so I fervently hoped!
Since this was a military dinner, rank-precedence trumped social-precedence and therefore I was the first to step out of Will of the People's lock and onto her main receiving deck. "Tench…. Hut!" an Imperial sergeant of marines rasped out, and with a sound like thunder fifty or so pairs of booted heels crashed together as one. It was impressive even though I was expecting it—while shipboard marines were always capable fighters, it was in the nature of things that drill and parade-style discipline suffered aboard ship. This was no one's fault—scandalized sergeants had been decrying the tendency for millennia. The root problem was that there wasn't sufficient space aboard a typical man-of-war for enough in the way of square-bashing to keep everyone sharp. These men, however… I raised my Sword in salute by way of returning the courtesy. "Two!" the sergeant barked, and again there was thunder as half a hundred blaster-butts struck the deck a single blow. Javelin was the darling of the Royal Fleet; in some regards she could even be considered its flagship. And yet, I had to admit to myself, my own command couldn't hope to match such a display of rigid discipline.
"Greetings, Captain Birkenhead!" Sir Jason declared, his dozens of medals jangling as he stepped forward to grip my hand. I had to smile at that; by tradition the bearer of a Sword of Orion wore no lesser decorations, so my chest was completely bare save for the fire-lily emblem of the House of Marcus. In my opinion this was by far the more impressive look, and the fact made me feel at least a little better about the marines. Then one by one the others stepped through and were greeted, until last of all Nestor emerged blinking out into the bright lights, nose wriggling and carrying what for him was a rather large insulated box. No one paid him any attention, however, as he was wearing formal Marcus footbunny livery and had dyed himself coal-black for the occasion. He was also wearing black contact lenses, which were a special rush-job from sick-bay, and had teased his ear-fur for hours to make the appendages appear much fuller and longer than they actually were. The result was that even I wouldn't have recognized him save for the dead giveaway of his personal scent. "Ah!" Sir Jason said when he finally noticed my aide cowering behind Jean's legs. "This must be your personal chef?"
I nodded and smiled. "His name is Patrick. It's very kind of you to be so hospitable as to allow him to share your galley, sir," I said with a little bow. Then I clasped my stomach, frowned, and shook my head. "But ever since Zombie Station…"
He smiled and nodded, then grinned down at little Nestor. "Regardless of what form they might take, war wounds are always badges of honor in the Empire. I'm sure our own Rabbits will be glad to offer Patrick any assistance he may require."
It was unusually nice, I decided about two hours later, to sit and openly eat so much Rabbit-style cuisine at a table full of humans. Back in my early days as a youth with the House of Marcus and then at the Academy, I'd been required to force down as much "normal" food as possible so as to fit in better, and in retrospect it was amazing how little fuss I'd made about it. No one had been so cruel as to try and ram a pork chop down my throat; it was understood that there were natural limits. But if everyone else was eating heavily-buttered peas or cheesy corn soufflé, well… in those days I'd been expected to make whatever effort it took to down my full portion no matter how awful it was for me. If I suffered endless stomach-cramps later, well… Antacids and laxatives were always available. I'd been trying my best to fit in at human-dominated dinner tables ever since, I suddenly realized as I chomped my delicious hay and downed a second helping of gently-steamed turnip greens. Even at my weekly captain's dinners, where I was the master of all I surveyed, I forced myself to eat all sorts of things I didn't like in order to cater to human social whims. Why was I still doing that, I asked myself as for once I downed nothing but delicious, healthy food in the company of humans? I looked furtively around the table; everyone else was totally absorbed in their lobsters, which apparently grew extra-large and tender in the clean seas of Imperious. They didn't seem to care that I wasn't downing what still looked to me like giant red spiders along with them. In
fact, so far as I could tell it didn't matter to them in the least what I ate, though I supposed that once upon a time when I'd had more to prove it probably had. So who was I kidding, anyway? Why was I so ashamed to eat what Rabbits ate? Why had I never brought my own food along to one of these events before? Maybe next time I should abandon all pretext and openly do so again?
At any rate, so far as I could tell everything was going swimmingly. Nestor was acting as my personal footbunny on the pretext that only he knew how to properly serve Rabbit-dishes at a formal dinner, and my aide was mixing in beautifully with the rest of Will of the People's stewards and ship's boys. I allowed myself a slight smile at this—I'd spent enough time backstairs myself to be certain that my friend was going to come back home chock-full of juicy local bunny-gossip. Meanwhile, I was studying my dining companions and coming to my own conclusions. It was eminently clear that Captain Harlowe wasn't the only one who felt our little dinner was a terrible idea. Every last one of Sir Jason's officers seemed to agree with him, judging by their pinched expressions and clipped, monosyllabic conversation. There couldn't have been a sharper contrast between them and Jean, who was clearly relishing every moment of the unusual experience. Heinrich too was enjoying himself, though you had to know him well to realize it because he'd become such an introvert. He was consuming plate after plate of food, and I suddenly realized that for him this was a rare opportunity to enjoy the cuisine of his childhood. He'd been raised in upper-class Imperial circles to the age of eleven, so in some ways this was old-home week for him. It was affecting him more than he probably realized—on those rare occasions when he did speak, his vowels were every bit as broad as those of the Imperials sitting to his left and right. Indeed, from time to time our hosts exchanged odd glances after he spoke, though none were so gauche as to ask questions openly.
One of the things I'd worried most about regarding dinner—other than being taken prisoner and executed, of course!—was conversation. Eating in sullen silence would've been rude in the extreme, yet what would it be safe to discuss? We'd debated the matter extensively among ourselves during the ride over, and had decided to avoid politics and anything about the current war insofar as we could without being obvious about it. On the other hand, since we were all professional naval officers it wasn't credible to imagine that we'd somehow manage to sit in each other company for a period of several hours and—short of dead silence—avoid the subject of battles and tactics entirely. So we'd agreed to try and focus on the past, the further back the better. And, of course, we'd be free to discuss the wargames that'd first brought Heinrich and Sir Jason and I together.
I was pleased to discover that Sir Jason had independently formulated the same strategy. No one spoke a word about Zombie Station or Richard's famous cruise or even the rape and pillage of Marcus Prime. Instead Jason opened the after-dinner conversation by telling the story of how, from his point of view, I'd come out of nowhere to take Gibraltar in our final gaming session. He did it so well that soon everyone else was laughing sympathetically, and I replied in kind by being painfully honest about how thoroughly he'd kicked my butt at Pharsalus. The men of both navies were keenly interested in the stories, and they went a long way towards breaking the ice. "There was never any doubt in my mind that David was going to become one of our worthiest enemies," Sir Jason declared as our dessert plates were cleared away and cocktails served. Nestor gave me a cup of my favorite tea instead. "After all, he'd already won a Sword by then in fair fight. And, well…" His smile widened, then he rose and raised his glass. "To Captain David Birkenhead, always an enemy to be reckoned with!"
The Imperials had clearly been coached to expect this—they were on their feet a good half-second before my own men were. There was only one way to respond, of course, which was to sit and look down at my cup until all the cheering was over with. Then it was my own turn to stand. "To Sir Jason Tallsdale," I replied in kind with my own cup raised. "Great gamer, great captain, great warrior, great host. And perhaps someday, good friend." There was more cheering. I raised the cup to my lips, drained it as required by decorum, then dabbed at my lips with my napkin. I almost missed it, partly because the tea was so fragrant and partly because of Nestor's own scent. But…
…somebunny had scent-marked the napkin in my hands. Somebunny whose personal odor I'd last encountered while transferring a high-level codebook to a person identified to me at the time only as a very valuable and high-placed Royal spy. Carefully I raised the napkin a second time and, while wiping again, I sniffed deep and hard. Yes, it was certain; this napkin had indeed been chin-rubbed by that same Rabbit, whoever he was. There could be no doubt at all.
And when I raised my eyes, Captain Sir Jason Tallsdale, fourth in line for the Imperial Crown, nodded ever so slightly to me.
11
I don't recall a lot about the rest of our visit to The Will of the People, though in fairness there wasn't that much left to remember. This was because my head was spinning much too rapidly, re-analyzing everything I'd thought I'd known about our current situation. There could be no question whatsoever that Sir Jason was a Royal sympathizer—it fit in too well with everything else I knew about him to be a lie, and the scent-mark so far as I knew was impossible to counterfeit. But beyond that… Suddenly I was faced with first a thousand, then a million brand-spanking-new questions. What were his goals? How far could I trust him? How much could he do to help us without compromising his own position? His true identity would be crucial information for anyone trying to work out the Wilkes mess, yet… Could I trust even my own closest advisors with such sensitive data? After all, even I had never been told. What greater and larger plans did Royal Intelligence have for Sir Jason, that I might upset totally with a single mis-step? My dinner-host's secret might well be so important to the larger picture that it'd be preferable allow the entire House of Wilkes to defect rather than take a chance on unmasking him!
But if so… Then why had he told me? It was the age-old intelligence dilemma; if you made use of information unearthed by a spy, you risked unmasking him. Yet if you didn't, what point was there in having him on your side to begin with?
In the end, I was uncharacteristically silent during the long after-dinner debriefing session back on board Javelin. Jean commented on the fact that the lower-ranking officers had been so hostile at first—"They thought the whole affair was a bad idea, I suspect," he observed. "But they did their best to make it work regardless, which tells me that Sir Jason has their respect. In turn, this implies he's considered a good, competent captain overall."
"They're short on supplies," Nestor added. "Three-quarters of the pantries are empty, and the ship's Rabbits are on tight hay-rations. Will of the People was diverted here at the last moment, sir; the Rabbits say she was escorting a homeward-bound convoy until the ambassador arrived. They've never been out so long before without hitting port. I'd guess that this means the Imperials are at least as short on ships as we are, and that Will is probably long overdue for maintenance."
"Those lobsters…" Heinrich contributed. "Sir, Imperial lobsters grow huge. But those were bigger and better than any I've ever known before. My father once ate at the Emperor's own table, and he told me of how incredibly massive the claws and legs were." He shook his head. "Only the inner family has access to lobsters like those, sir. I'd wager my rank on it. Our host is no longer being treated like a mere cousin."
"What a marine detachment!" Captain Harlowe added. "My god—such perfect discipline!" He shook his head. "With ten thousand men like them under my command, I'd not fear the wrath of god himself!"
Then everyone looked at me, waiting for me to offer my own observations. But I had to disappoint them. "Magnificent work, gentlemen," I murmured, mind still a thousand miles away. "You kept your eyes wide open indeed. Excellent reports, all of you." Then I rose to my feet, indicating the meeting was over. "Good night. And thank you!"
***
It wasn't until much later that I finally came to my first r
eally important decision. "Nestor," I called from my desk, where I'd been catching up on what reports I could. "Are you still up and about?"
"Yes, sir!" he replied, scurrying in from the smaller aide's cabin attached to my own. Formerly this had been known as the servant's cabin, but I refused to allow Nestor to be considered a mere servant and so had renamed it. "Can I help you?"
"Pour us both some tea," I said, sighing and turning my chair around to face the bed, where my friend habitually sat whenever we had a long discussion. "We've got some talking to do."
About an hour later, after hearing the entire uncensored story of the code books and the scent marks, Nestor's eyes were huge. "I think I know which bunny it was, sir," he said finally. "Sir Jason's chief personal servant is gray, just like the Rabbit you saw disappearing down the corridor on Geneva Station. All the others treat him almost like a master. His name is Cloud."
I nodded. "Is he old enough to have been an adult back when Sir Jason was still a child?"
"I think so," Nestor answered. "He didn't do any actual work himself—just told everyone else what to do." His ears lowered. "Usually an overseer-Rabbit isn't very popular. But they seemed to like Cloud." Then he shook his head. "If only I'd known, sir! I'd have introduced myself and—"
"You couldn't have known," I interrupted him. "For that matter, neither did I."
"Maybe not, sir. But still… Wow!"
"Yeah," I agreed, draining my last sip of tea as I let my aide's marvelous brain work through all the new angles and possibilities. "The more you think about it, the more tremendous the implications."
"I won't sleep a wink tonight after hearing this," Nestor agreed. Then he looked up at me. "Neither of us will, I suppose."
"Not a chance." I sighed, then turned back to my desk. "I've decided not to tell anyone else, for the moment at least. But… I simply must bounce ideas off of someone."